


they go to Valhalla and feast

by Jade_II



Series: Professor Song [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_II/pseuds/Jade_II
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once she’s done writing the book, River needs to be alone for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they go to Valhalla and feast

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 of probably 4 for my 'Professor Song' series, following 'The Smell of Freedom'. Thanks to Charina for the beta :)

Once she’s done writing the book, River needs to be alone for a while.

 

She just wants to be done with the whole thing.

 

It was bad enough living through losing her parents; having to go through it all again, recounting every last detail in the hope that it would… what? Let everything happen exactly the way it already had, again and again, ad infinitum? It was torture, and she hated every minute of it. The only thing keeping her sane was the thought of the Doctor’s face when he read all the little innuendos she sprinkled in in an effort to keep it light-hearted. She had to keep his younger self reading until he realised what the book was, after all.

 

The Doctor himself was a nightmare. Having a nightmare. Living a nightmare. Same thing, she supposed, really. He moped and brooded and no comfort she could offer him was enough. She _knew_ he would get through this, knew that there would be other companions to capture his hearts… but she didn’t know how to get him there, and that frustrated her to no end.

 

She tried to distract him, taking him on whirlwind adventures and quiet little getaways, but all he did was _mope_. And, quite frankly, River felt she was long overdue some moping herself.

 

So she left him, as soon as she dared.

 

She doesn’t go home; diving right back into everyday life as though nothing had happened would be wrong, as tempting as the prospect might seem. Archaeology can wait; that’s one of the things she’s always liked about it. She’ll come back to it when she’s ready.

 

Which is not yet.

 

No, what she needs is somewhere quiet, to be alone, or at least anonymous. Somewhere comfortable, preferably, where wallowing in her misery will be a simple indulgence.

 

She chooses a suitably scenic little planet and checks in to the nearest hotel.

 

The room is large and awash in the orange light from the sunrise which currently forms the centrepiece of the stunning vista of trees and mountains visible through the suite’s main window. River drops her bag on the sofa and wanders over, sighing at the sight of so much natural beauty on display. Stepping closer, she rests her forehead against the glass.

 

Her parents would have loved this. Maybe she needs to go and find some younger versions of them and bring them here sometime.

 

Younger versions. She always did wonder why she never saw them older than their mid-thirties. A part of her had come up with the most horrific answers to that question; she supposes she should be glad, now that she knows the truth.

 

Another part of her is just angry at them for leaving her again.

 

It’s a stupid, irrational thought, of course; they didn’t choose to leave, any more than they had the first time. For her father, it had been an accident; for her mother, a necessity. Neither of them had really had a choice, when it came down to it.

 

But logic never does help her with irrational thoughts.

 

Sometimes she hated them, when she was little. She would sit there in the classroom watching them, glancing from one to the other and seething inside. And then Amy would pass her a silly note and she would have to stop again, because it was impossible to reconcile this Amy with the older one, who had given her up. Given up on her. Same thing, it seemed like then.

 

She knows better now, of course. And still, a part of her resents them for it. She had thought that she had outgrown that particular irrational feeling; that all the logic she had heaped on it had finally stuck – but apparently not. Not today.

 

But she’s allowed to mope today, and that can include feeling sorry for herself because her parents don’t love her the way she wants them to. A fairly normal complaint, when it comes down to it. Perhaps when she can see how utterly mundane it is, she can banish it in favour of something more constructive.

 

Constructive can wait, though.

 

River orders champagne from the hi-tech food dispenser in the wall – hi-tech compared to the 1930’s, anyway – and steps out through the transparent sliding doors onto the balcony, inhaling the fresh mountain air and sinking into one of the comfy little chairs with relish, sipping at her deliciously naughty morning beverage and gazing out at the scenery.

 

The scenery which is all of a sudden very… noisy.

 

She sighs, debating with herself for a moment before giving in to her curiosity and getting back up, striding to the edge of the balcony and peering down.

 

In the field below, there is a battle raging.

 

This was not exactly part of the plan. However, River is always one to roll with the punches.

 

She watches carefully, trying to decide which side she might join and which of her weapons she should bring along. She could pick off a large chunk of either army with a sniper rifle from right here, of course, but that would be no fun.

 

Speaking of which, the combatants below seem to be enjoying themselves rather more than one might expect, she notices.

 

The weapons they are fighting with are very low-tech; blades and blunt objects, mostly, with armour to match. River frowns, paying more attention, and sees a man grin as another swings his club right at his head—only for it to pass straight through his skull without seeming to do any damage. The victim remains just as cheerful as he throws himself dramatically on the ground.

 

This is a _fake_ fight, she realises—fake weapons and fake deaths.

 

Well. That’s dull, then.

 

She watches for a few more minutes just to be sure, but everyone seems quite enthusiastic about playing dead, really. It doesn’t quite make sense, but River has learned that there’s a difference between the eerie and the nonsensical when it comes to things that don’t quite add up, and she rather suspects that this is the latter.

 

With another sigh, she throws herself back into the chair and drains her champagne glass. Trust her to come to a planet where they like to fight pretend battles.

 

The noise below rather detracts from the serenity of her surroundings, so she ventures back inside to explore the rest of her suite, shutting the doors tight behind her. She’ll go out again once they’re all dead, she decides. It shouldn’t take too long.

 

Leading off the main room are two as-yet unopened doors. The first one leads to the bedroom; just as luxurious as the lounge, if not more so, its large glass doors leading back out onto the balcony and its even-larger bed covered in more pillows than anybody could possibly need. She flops down onto it idly, pushing most of them out of the way; the satin sheets are pleasantly cool against her palms, and she digs her fingers in tight as she closes her eyes.

 

Yes, she decides. This will be a good place to mope.

 

She allows herself a moment to lie back and breathe in the clean lavender scent of the pillow by her head, exhaling slowly and banishing all thoughts from her mind. That never lasts long, though, so she rolls off the bed and wanders back out of the room to go and find the bath.

 

It doesn’t disappoint.

 

It’s not too big, but that’s a good thing; she doesn’t like baths you can swim in. They remind her too much of sinking. This one is the perfect size, just long enough to rest her toes against the end when she lies with her head above the water, if she’s any judge.

 

Only one way to find out, in any case.

 

River turns on the water and finds a button which adds more lavender scent. She strips quickly, throwing her clothes carelessly on the floor, and stops the water again before it gets too deep. With a sigh, she steps over the side of the tub and lowers herself in.

 

Yes, she thinks, sinking into the hot, clear water. Perfect.

 

The rest of the white tiled bathroom shines and sparkles around her, clean and friendly and at the same time quite wonderfully bland. She decides that this will be the perfect place to be boring for a while.

 

Of course, it has to be at that moment that the Doctor falls through the ceiling.

 

She should have known he would never let her sit around doing something as mundane as taking a bath.

 

A cloud of plaster puffs out of the hole which has suddenly appeared above the centre of the room and cascades down on top of him. He is muttering irritably as he brushes himself off and pulls himself up on the side of the tub, and he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s there until he’s looking right at her. Then he gawks.

 

River, for her part, has a hard time not doing the same.

 

He’s so _young_.

 

She’s seen regenerations past his Eleventh self, though he is the one who always seems to be there for the most important events in their lives. She has never yet seen any who are _younger._

 

Well. There’s a first time for everything.

 

“Hello, sweetie,” she says with a raised eyebrow to Doctor number Ten. “Just thought you’d drop in, did you?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, still staring, looking just a little bit like a deer in the headlights with his hair white with plaster and his glasses slightly askew. “Something like that.” He swallows. “Hello, River.” He waves vaguely with his sonic screwdriver, clutched in one fist resting against the side of the tub. “I wasn’t really expecting to find… you. Here. Sorry.”

 

“Whatever for?” He is kind of adorable with this face, she has to admit.

 

“Well, for…” He shrugs, looking her up and down and then, as if realising what he was doing, swallows and pulls his gaze quickly back up to meet her own. “Interrupting your… bath.”

 

“You’ve never had any compunctions about doing that before,” she tells him, rolling over to face him and propping herself up on one elbow. She smiles up at him, remembering the last time. Last time for her, at any rate.

 

The Doctor swallows again, making a small panicked noise at the back of his throat. _Bless_. Taking pity on him, she pulls herself up into a sitting position, crossing her arms and resting them on the side of the tub when he backs away instinctively. “So, sweetie,” she says to the still rather discombobulated Time Lord sitting on the bathmat. “What kind of monsters have you got for me today?”

 

As expected, he brightens right up.

 

“Oh!” he says, jumping to his feet and pointing his screwdriver at the hole he made in the ceiling, beyond which she can see a vague suggestion of attic space. “Some Valkyries were chasing me. Wonder what’s happened to them.”

 

“Valkyries,” River repeats patiently. She fancies she can see movement, up there in the attic. She wonders if he’s noticed it.

 

“Yeah, you know – they bring the dead to Valhalla, lovely place, just down the road… only they don’t seem to be cooperating today.” A screeching sound that might be laughter echoes from above them and he glances back at River, holding out a hand. “We should probably run.”

 

She rolls her eyes, taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet – at which he blushes, clearing his throat and looking away. Chuckling, River steps down onto the mat and grabs a towel; the screeching from above grows louder as she wraps it around herself and a face appears at the edge of the hole in the ceiling, grinning nastily as long fingers reach down towards the Doctor. The creature looks like a fairy with too many teeth.

 

Tying her towel, River steps in front of the Doctor and directly under the hole to get a better look. The Valkyrie, if that is indeed what it is, backs away slightly when she does so, and the Doctor uses the opportunity to grab her wrist and back out of the room, slamming the door behind them and turning quickly to choose a direction seemingly at random; a moment later he is barricading the door of the bedroom with… pillows, which he pauses to sniff appreciatively.

 

River watches for a moment before sitting down on the bed, deciding that he probably knows what he’s doing. If not, her blaster is in… _Oh_ , she realises belatedly. In the lounge. In her bag. With the rest of her belongings.

 

On the other side of that door.

 

“Are you going to explain, sweetie?” River asks after a moment, going to lean back on a pillow only to have it swiped from under her elbow and added to the growing pile in front of the door.

 

“Lavender,” the Doctor says shortly, waving another of the scented pillows around. “It’s poisonous to them. Which is just as well, because right now it’s the only weapon we’ve got.” He pauses, looking at her speculatively. “Unless…?”

 

She quashes the hope in his voice with a shake of her head. “All I’ve got is what you see, honey.”

 

He takes this in; River sees the precise moment he realises exactly what she’s saying, and she smirks even as he is struggling out of his trench coat and hastily holding it out to her.

 

“Thank you, sweetie,” she says warmly, deciding not to be offended that he doesn’t want to see her in nothing but a towel. It’s probably terribly distracting for him, the poor dear. River curls up on top of the duvet and looks at him attentively as he adds the last of the pillows to his by now quite precarious pile. “Why are we hiding from them, then?” she asks. “What will they do to us if they get in?”

 

“Take us back to Valhalla,” he says with a shrug. “And then kill us.”

 

River blinks. “I thought it worked the other way around.”

 

“It’s supposed to.” The Doctor nods, running his screwdriver over the pillows before moving to investigate the rest of the room. “But of course they’re not really Valkyries—they’re just conveniently shaped indigenous lifeforms employed by the resort to act as Valkyries. And apparently they’re not quite doing their job any more.” He has reached the window and glances out onto the balcony as something flies down to the ground in the distance. “People pay for the whole Norse package; they fight, they die, they go to Valhalla and feast, and then they fight again. Unfortunately they’re not any kind of match for these creatures. The ones who fought on the battlefield down there yesterday are all dead, now. Really dead. And the ones there now will be by tomorrow morning.”

 

“So what are we going to do about it?” she asks sensibly.

 

“Well,” he says, perching gingerly on the bed. “Now we wait.”

 

“Wait for what?” River says. Having sat still for a couple of minutes, she is starting to feel quite cold now, even with his coat on over her towel.

 

“For them to attack. Or for night – they’ve got very bad night vision, we might be able to sneak away. How high up is your balcony?” he asks, jumping to his feet to investigate before she can answer.

 

“Very,” she says anyway, watching him press his face to the glass of the door to peer out at said balcony. “How long are we likely to be waiting?”

 

“Depends. I reckon it’s, what, fourteen hours until sunset? Less time if they decide to attack, of course, but it’ll depend on how long that takes them.”

 

“In that case,” River says coolly, “I am waiting in bed.”

 

He turns to stare as she climbs under the covers, pulling them tight around her now shivering body. There’s no pillow any more but the mattress is pleasantly firm, and River sighs comfortably, closing her eyes. “Wake me up if we’re in mortal peril, won’t you darling?” she says.

 

It takes him a moment to answer. “…Right.”

 

He is relatively still for a minute or so, but then she hears him pacing again, all the way around the room. He drops to his knees and sweeps an arm under the bed, looking for who knows what, and then stands again to readjust the pile of pillows in front of the door. Then he paces some more.

 

“Come here, sweetie,” River commands lazily. The sound of him fluttering about the room like a hyperactive moth is giving her a headache.

 

It makes him stop moving, at least. “Um,” he says. “I was just… checking the barricade, actually.”

 

“I _know_.” Sighing, she opens her eyes. “It’s a pile of cushions, Doctor. Their precise positioning isn’t likely to make much difference.

 

He still won’t budge, so she pushes the covers back and swings her legs over the side of the bed, padding across the couple of feet of carpet to where he stands. She grabs him by the arm and drags him back to the bed, pushing him into a sitting position at its foot, and climbs back in herself.

 

He’s sitting on the folds of the sheets now, so she has to yank them out from under him before she can bury herself in the covers again. In doing so she makes him start, and he turns to look at her.

 

“’Night, sweetie,” she says, raising an eyebrow as she settles down.

 

“It’s morning,” he points out.

 

She makes an indifferent noise. “I’m jetlagged.”

 

His pause is long enough for her to think he’s not going to reply, but he does. “Where have you been?”

 

That questions hits harder than she would like. “Oh, here and there.” She tries to sound breezy, but fails. “Earth,” she admits. “Had to say some goodbyes.” Technically she has been to several other places since, but it’s still sticking in her mind, immediate and painful. She wonders how long it will take for that to stop.

 

The Doctor, now, is looking just as mournful as she feels. “Know the feeling,” he says shortly, breaking eye contact.

 

“Oh,” she says, realising. “Donna?”

 

“You know.” It is not a question; the way his face contorts says as much. “You knew. And you didn’t say anything.”

 

“Sweetie, I’ve never seen you younger than this,” she tells him, raising herself on an elbow; he is still turned half away from her. “I’m assuming I will, in my future, but no, I won’t have said anything. Can’t.” She lets her guilt show in her eyes for a moment, hoping to assuage further torment for both of them. “Spoilers,” she reminds him, letting herself fall back onto the bed. She continues, half to herself, “Besides, y _ou_ must have known what I’ve just been through, at least when you were older. Not a word, though.” She considers this. “Thanks,” she decides eventually. “I think.”

 

“You’re welcome.” Shifting, he climbs up onto the bed, spider-like with his long limbs, and plonks himself down by her head; where there should be a pillow but, of course, isn’t. “I think,” he echoes.

 

River giggles, rolling over to face him. “So, Doctor. What brings you to… wherever the hell we are?” She didn’t check the name of the place when she arrived, preoccupied as she had been.

 

“Asgaard?” He shrugs. “The TARDIS. I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest – just stepped out, and here I was. Thought at first that she’d dropped me off for some R&R, but obviously not.”

 

“So you’re not going to rest, for these fourteen hours we could be trapped in here?”

 

“Nah.” He shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”

 

“What do you plan to do, then?” If only he were older, of course, she could think of dozens of things they might do… but no. That won’t help in the here and now.

 

“Well… wait.” Another shrug.

 

“Ooh, aren’t you a barrel of fun?” she says, trying not to sound too dismayed, though she does poke him in the ribs.

 

“I thought you were going to sleep?”

 

“I never said that,” she points out. “I said I was going to _bed_.”

 

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

 

That makes her laugh. “Not usually, sweetie.”

 

It takes him a moment, but he blushes.

 

Smiling smugly, River rolls away from him and closes her eyes, pulling the duvet tight across her cheek and inhaling deeply of its clean floral scent.

 

“Why did you decide to come through my ceiling, anyway?” she asks after a moment, curious.

 

“Oh, the lavender,” he replies. He’s fiddling with something, now – shoelaces, perhaps? “I was just following the lavender.”

 

“Lucky for you that I’m staying in the Lavender Suite, then. Are you wearing _shoes_ in my bed?

 

The fiddling stops – clearly an admission of guilt. “Er…”

 

“Off,” she commands. “Now.” A frantic scrabbling has her rolling her eyes, resisting the urge to turn and face him. “The shoes, Doctor, not you.”

 

“Oh.” He sits back down with a muted bounce and shifts his legs around instead. A little bit more fiddling and he is throwing first one and then the other shoe over her head at the empty wardrobe built into the wall, where each hits the door with a _bang_.

 

“So much for my quiet time alone,” she comments to herself in an undertone.

 

The Doctor has clearly heard her, because he stills, leaning back against the headboard and sitting silently.

 

River snuggles down further into the covers.

 

He’ll be stung by that remark, she knows – the Doctor hates feeling unwanted. But this is just… _not_ what she had planned.

 

Which, of course, should have been what she expected, because her darling husband always, always thwarts her plans.

 

Except he isn’t quite her husband, yet.

 

And this is really, _really_ not what she needs. She has just spent weeks looking after the Doctor, she needs a break, not this, this… she is tempted to call it _babysitting_ , but no, perhaps that’s too cruel. But she doesn’t need to be reminded, now of all times, that, having lost her parents, she is still losing him as well. Meeting by meeting, page by page, her diary is filling up and his… well. She has a horrible feeling that this Doctor sitting next to her hasn’t got a diary at all.

 

She _misses_ him.

 

She was so, so happy in New York to find a Doctor who knew who she was, who _they_ were, together. But then he had to have been, given what happened in the end. Damn him. Damn their stupid, back-to-front lives, and damn her for leaving him when he was _there_ , back in her life after so long.

 

_I had to._

_Liar. You gave up. Things got tough, and you ran._

_Just like him._

 

The last time she saw him – real him, her _husband_ him – the last time before that was years ago. She tries to tell herself she doesn’t mind, that she always knew this was coming, but…

 

Well. But that’s a lie.

 

Of course she minds. She minds so much that it drives her mad with hurt, with longing, with loneliness. And usually even this meeting with a young Doctor would be a balm to that hurt, but not today.

 

Today, all she wants is to be alone.

 

That, or with her family at the pub, playing video games… but, failing that, alone.

 

Not with this man who looks at her like he’s not even sure he wants to.

 

“I could leave,” the Doctor says suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. She checks surreptitiously for contact, in case he really is – but no. He’s not touching her. Of course not.

 

“No, sweetie…” she turns to look at him, speaking without thinking, and then wonders what it means that she instinctively won’t let go. Perhaps she’s just clinging to what she does have, instead of what she can’t.

 

Perhaps that’s not such a terrible thing.

 

Oh, and he’s doing the puppy dog thing, which looks the same in any incarnation, and her heart melts a little bit.

 

“I didn’t mean to intrude.” He looks pained, uncomfortable, and River decides abruptly that there’s no point in both of them being down.

 

“You didn’t,” she assures him, moving to rest a hand on his knee.

 

“Was it me?” he asks abruptly. “Me in the future, am I the one who made you so…”

 

“Tetchy?” She flashes him a grin. “No, sweetie. Not really.”

 

He seems to realise that that’s not really completely true, but lets it go. After a pensive moment, however, he asks, “What am I like, in the future?”

 

Her grin widens of its own accord, and she looks at him warmly. Poor boy, he’s got the best yet to come. “Oh, Doctor.” She shifts closer, almost but not quite snuggling up to him. “ _You_ are brilliant.”

 

A smile. Success.

 

 

River wakes up to find the Doctor fast asleep beside her, snoring loudly. This is not an unfamiliar sight, though the circumstances are slightly different than usual – if there is a usual, she reflects wryly. But one thing all those other times have in common is that the Doctor has completely exhausted himself, refusing to give in to sleep even when he has been awake for seven days straight – which is insane, even for him. And the reason he does this is so he can escape the dreams, the ones that plague him with all the unpleasant thoughts and memories he can pretend to ignore while he’s awake.

 

She wonders what this Doctor is dreaming about. How close is he to the Time War, still? To Rose? And then of course there’s Donna, and Martha… the Master, the first but – she checks, but he’s not dying, so not the second time yet. Too much to choose from, anyway.

 

Much like her, she supposes, though she’s always felt that she’s dealt with it better than he does. Comes from growing up with nightmares worse than anything her adult life can throw at her, she supposes.

 

The Doctor at least was a happy child, once upon a time.

 

He’s frowning now, something behind his eyelids upsetting him, and she lifts a finger automatically to smooth the lines on his forehead. Usually when she does this she dips into his mind, trying to smooth the wrinkles she finds in there, too. She hesitates, this time… but he is asleep. He’s not going to remember her intrusion as anything more than a nice dream to counteract the others.

 

She keeps the connection light, almost superficial as she glides over the surface of his thoughts, sowing warmth into them as she goes. It’s not much, but it’s not nothing, either. A nasty spot turns up almost immediately, clutching at him angrily. She’s seen it before, dampened – never so raw. _Donna_ , she knows. He’ll never lose that guilt, but she tries to impart to him that it will get better with time.

 

The next coil of anguish she finds shocks her.

 

Because it’s _her_.

 

She recognises it of course; she’s become very familiar with it over the centuries, it and its many other iterations. She knows the Doctor has terribly conflicting feelings about her past, even her future, which of course he knows more about than she. But she never would have expected to find it so _early_ , so strong.

 

What has she done to this Doctor to make him feel this way?

 

She doesn’t get to find out because a subtle shift in his thought patterns tells her that he’s waking up, and she has to pull away quickly before he realises what she’s doing. Tucking her hands under her cheek, she settles back down on the bed and watches.

 

He awakens with a jolt, immediately sitting bolt upright and taking in his surroundings. When he turns to look down at River, his first expression is one of guilt.

 

Hmm. Maybe the question is not as much what she did to him, as what he did to her…

 

“It’s almost evening,” he states. He sounds shocked.

 

“Indeed it is.” River raises an eyebrow. “Any more details to your plan, sweetie?”

 

The Doctor looks confused for a moment before he remembers, and he jumps off the bed and jogs over to the window. “How good a climber are you, Professor Song?” he asks after a moment, looking back at her.

 

She raises her other eyebrow, pushing herself up onto one elbow. “Exceptional, as it happens.”

 

“Good.” He grins. “Fancy a climb?”

 

Narrowing her eyes warily, River pushes herself upright and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Sauntering over to the window, she peers over his shoulder into the darkness outside. “What exactly are you proposing?”

 

“Well, I reckon there are enough handholds for us to shimmy down the side of the building – and then, on to Valhalla!”

 

“Where’s the TARDIS?” she enquires.

 

He hesitates for a moment before replying. “In Valhalla.”

 

River claps him on the shoulder of his suit and pulls his coat tighter around herself. “Then Valhalla it is.”

 

A telltale grin spreading over his face, the Doctor slides open the door and steps out onto the balcony. River joins him in leaning over the edge and surveying the drop beneath. He’s right, it’s not too bad – the building’s façade is embellished with elaborate carvings of Norse gods and mythical creatures, and there are balconies like River’s almost all the way to the ground.

 

“Over we go, then,” the Doctor declares with a shrug, and vaults over the balcony’s railing to clamber down to the one below.

 

River smiles fondly and follows, wondering how long it will take before he realises the consequences of his boldly going first. She hopes he won’t fall to his death when he does.

 

As it turns out he is distracted first by a solitary Valkyrie soaring off the roof and away into the distance, swooping down quite low past them on its way. River flattens herself against the figure of Loki she is currently using as a handhold, trying to remain completely still – the Doctor commented on their bad eyesight, but he didn’t say anything about their hearing. Will the sound of River’s breathing be enough to give her away? She tries to be silent, just in case, and the grotesque creature flies on by.

 

“There’ll probably be more along in a minute!” The Doctor’s voice echoes up from beneath her. “We’d better hurr—aah!”

 

River looks down just in time to see him hit the ground two floors below her – thankfully he was a floor further down, and doesn’t look fatally injured from what she can see of him in the faint light seeping from the windows of the ground-floor suite. Still, she scrambles down to join him as quickly as she can, to make sure.

 

He is groaning rather pitifully, clutching his foot, but a quick examination reveals it to be unbroken, probably not even sprained.

 

“Get up, you big baby,” River tells him, grabbing his hand and hauling him to his feet.

 

“You could’ve _said_ something,” he complains, stumbling after her as she drags him in the direction the Valkyries seemed to be heading.

 

“You chose to go first,” she counters. “Not very gentlemanly, if I may say so.”

 

“Well, I’m very sorry,” he says sincerely. “I forgot you had no… oh, you’ve got no shoes, either!”

 

She stops him before he can remove his and tries not to ruminate too much on the fact that _her_ Doctor would never, ever forget that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Ever. Even if he wanted to. “Keep your shoes, sweetie. Neither of us will run as fast if I’m wearing them.”

 

“Who said anything about running?”

 

“Doctor” She looks at him pointedly. “There is _always_ running.”

 

As if to prove her point, a whole swarm of Valkyries pass overhead. River clutches the Doctor’s hand tightly and automatically pulls him close; a gesture that has him squeaking in surprise, so she puts a hand over his mouth to shush him until the sound of wings beating above their heads has subsided.

 

“We’d better hurry,” the Doctor says again when she removes it, and she tries not to think about the way his lips felt under her palm.

 

“Yes,” River agrees, and runs barefoot beside him across the grass.

 

 

When they reach the putative Valhalla, they are both out of breath and have to hunker down for a moment to catch it before they creep to the top of a small mound to observe the scene. Lying flat in the grass, they watch as a huge fire is lit next to a large, apparently empty building. Humans are confined in several makeshift cages around the fire; an additional cage holds about twenty Valkyries. Several creatures are in the air, too, screeching orders to those below.

 

“So where’s the TARDIS?” River says in a low voice, moving close to him so he can hear; if that also happens to be close enough to smell him, it’s entirely coincidental… though she has always appreciated the fact that he smells the same no matter what face he is wearing. It’s comforting; like an anchor, when everything else is in flux.

 

“Where d’you think?” he says grimly, inclining his head.

 

She follows his gaze to see what the mass of Valkyries crawling all over it kept her from seeing before – the familiar blue box, standing between two of the cages, its surface being thoroughly investigated. One of the creatures has even unscrewed the bulb from the top and is turning it over in its long fingers.

 

“Oh, she’s going to be very unhappy with you for letting _that_ happen to her,” River tuts. “Poor girl.”

 

The Doctor looks at her quizzically, but she doesn’t think she’s said too much. Just stated the obvious.

 

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he mutters.

 

“And I’m sure she’ll take that into consideration.”

 

“Be that as it may, we’ve got to get her away from them.”

 

“The people, too,” she points out.

 

“Yes, yes, of course, but how?”

 

“Have you tried talking to them?”

 

“Only if yelling over my shoulder as I run away counts as ‘talking’.”

 

River sighs. “Do I still smell of lavender?”

 

The Doctor leans in to sniff her, quite unashamedly. For all his love of human beings, the social niceties are something he never has got quite right. River has often wondered how she can find that both endearing and exasperating at the same time. “Yep,” he declares, returning his gaze immediately to his captive ship.

 

“Right then.” River stands, brushing herself off. “Let me see what I can do.”

 

“River!” he protests, jumping to his feet beside her, but she grabs him by the arm and pulls him back down.

 

“ _You_ stay here and keep out of trouble,” she instructs firmly. Rising again, she adds, “And don’t wander off.”

 

The Doctor scowls at that, so she blows him a kiss before she walks down the hill.

 

The heat from the fire as she approaches feels like heaven against her bare shins, and she realises abruptly how cold she’d been getting once she’d stopped moving. The mountain air is cooling rapidly now that the sun has set, making the higher temperature up ahead all the more marked.

 

She’s been noticed, she sees; the Valkyries’ movements have slowed as one by one they turn warily to watch her approach. River puts on her best smile – no teeth, because she would bet that with mouths like _that_ teeth can mean a serious threat – and greets them warmly. “Good evening. Might I enquire as to what’s going on here?”

 

As one they freeze, the only movement the steady beating of wings, keeping them stationary. River smiles brightly, wondering if this is supposed to be intimidating, and waits.

 

Eventually, slowly, one of the airborne Valkyries threads its way through the throng to land in front of her. “Who are you?” it demands in a high, scratchy voice, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 

“My name is River Song,” she informs it, voice steady. “And who are you?”

 

“I am Stix, Queen of this clan.” It – she – sniffs the air carefully, and visibly fights the urge to recoil. “What is your business here?”

 

“Like I said.” River plants her hands firmly on her hips. “I want to know what’s going on.”

 

“Our business is none of yours.”

 

“I beg to differ, when your business appears to involve locking up my fellow humans.”

 

The Queen looks surly but replies, “They mock us. We cannot tolerate mockery.”

 

“How do they mock you?”

 

“They worship false gods and entice our young to join in their heresy.” She gestures at the caged Valkyries – the young, apparently.

 

“I see.” A religious complaint. Always the messiest to deal with. River holds back a sigh.

 

“We must now sacrifice your unbelievers to appease the true gods.”

 

“Really.” This is just great. Honestly. Fantastic.

 

“You must not think us unfair. Our sinners will be burned also.”

 

“Oh. Well, that’s alright then.”

 

This seems to stop the Valkyrie short. “Truly?” she says, voice uncertain.

 

It was in fact sarcasm, but… “Oh, yes. None of my business, really. There’s just one thing.”

 

“What thing?” the Queen snarls, immediately suspicious. Good on her, River reflects.

 

“That blue box,” she says, pointing at the TARDIS. “It’s mine.”

 

The Valkyrie follows her gaze. “What is it?” she hisses.

 

“It’s a blue box,” River repeats patiently. “And I want it back.”

 

“And if we refuse to give it?”

 

River lets the Doctor’s coat fall open, causing a fresh whiff of lavender to escape. “Then you will die,” she says simply.

 

The Valkyrie hisses again, as if to show that she is not afraid – an effect which is diminished rather by the hasty three steps backwards which she takes at the same time. “Very well,” she concedes, most ungraciously.

 

“Thank you,” River says cordially, attempting to inject enough grace for the both of them. She steps forward without hindrance, and so continues briskly towards the TARDIS.

 

Unfortunately, just as she is about to reach out and touch her, there is a commotion near the fire. River’s arms are grabbed from behind and, rolling her eyes as she is roughly dragged backwards, she turns her head to where she knows she will find the Doctor.

 

He is just sonicking the lock of the final cage, the one holding the young Valkyries, and they swarm up to meet their elders, conveniently providing a distraction from the dozens of humans fleeing into the forest. The Doctor himself is not so lucky, but then, he isn’t trying to flee – bless him, the idiot is running towards _her_.

 

She breaks free from her captor’s grasp – it’s easy, wary as the creature is of her lavender-scented skin – and slaps him soundly across the face.

 

“I told you to stay out of trouble!” she fumes. “ _Don’t wander off,_ I said!” She scowls at him as two Valkyries holding big sheets in front of them, presumably for protection, grab her once more and begin to frog-march her towards the nearest cage, with two more handsy guards pushing the Doctor after her.

 

“I didn’t _wander_ ,” the Doctor protests, eyes still wide after the slap. “I went purposely to free the prisoners.” This earns him a shove from his guards.

 

“A noble sentiment, sweetie, but if you had done as you were _told_ I would be in the TARDIS by now rather than about to be burned alive!” River glares pointedly as they are thrown inside the cage, the Doctor’s screwdriver confiscated and the barred door relocked.

 

“You couldn’t have got into the TARDIS without a key.”

 

“Oh, you mean this key?” River says archly, holding it up to his face.

 

“What – where did you get that?”

 

“Pilfered it from your pocket before I left you, of course.”

 

Completely baffled by now, the Doctor throws up his hands and demands, “Who _are_ you?”

 

She harrumphs. “Someone with more sense than you, obviously. I hope you’ve got a bright idea to get us out of this mess, because I don’t.” Never mind that she is purposely deflecting the question… and how many more times is she going to have to hear him ask it? Too many, she fears.

 

“I did have a plan, but it seems to have gone awry.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s an understatement, sweetie.”

 

“I’ll think of something.”

 

“You’d better. Lavender scented bath oil will only go so far.”

 

“You can’t die here as well,” he mutters critically, half to himself. “So we must find a way—“

 

“As well?” she interrupts him, raising an eyebrow in an effort to conceal the body blow he has just dealt her. His lack of response only seals the deal.

 

 _That’s_ what he did to her. That’s why the angry coil of guilt inside him is so raw. The last time he saw her, this Doctor saw her die.

 

It explains a lot, at any rate.

 

“A plan!” he declares, more manically than usual, and jumps up to grab the bars at the the top of the cage. “Right, a plan, I’ve got one!” He hooks his feet through the bars and hangs upside-down, patting his pockets until he finds what he needs. “Ha!” he yells, pulling out his psychic paper with a flourish. Then, addressing the general population, “Miscreants! Come and meet your gods!”

 

“Oh, not this again,” River says under her breath.

 

“Did you say something?” asks the Doctor, slightly breathless with the upside-down yelling.

 

“Nothing, sweetie.”

 

“Right. Now.” He holds up a finger to admonish her, and she wonders if he knows how ridiculous he looks, trying to be serious. He probably does, she reflects. It’s all part of the act. “When they’re suitably distracted,” he instructs, “run for the TARDIS.” He pauses, watching her carefully as he continues, “Then come and rescue me.”

 

“We’re still locked in,” she points out – though actually, she could probably pick the lock given five minutes and a willingness to break some fingernails. This doesn’t look likely though, as the Valkyries are approaching again, having apparently dealt with their renegades and looking as enraged as she would expect given the Doctor’s exhortations.

 

“Not for long,” he says smugly.

 

River suppresses another roll of her eyes as the Doctor schools his features into those of a scorned god; which he does do rather well in this body, it has to be said. The Valkyrie Queen wrenches open the door, breaking the lock, and clambers right up to rage in the upside-down Doctor’s face. “You _dare_ to mock our gods?” she hisses furiously.

 

“No.” The Doctor holds up his psychic paper. “I _am_ your god.”

 

The Queen’s roar dies in her throat as she squints at whatever is depicted there. “What is this trickery?” she demands, suddenly winded.

 

The other Valkyries crowd closer, drawn in by their Queen’s shocked reaction, and River slips past them and pads swiftly back to the TARDIS.

 

She reaches it, this time, pushes the key into the lock, and steps inside.

 

The interior is more organic than she is used to, lit in hues of blue and orange, with the floor wonderfully warm beneath her bare feet. The console too is unfamiliar to her eyes, but she knows that if she steps forward with intent she will know which controls do what as though she had used them a thousand times before.

 

What she doesn’t quite know is what she is expected to do next. Bearing this in mind, she decides that the best thing will be to go somewhere – or more crucially, some _when_ – else while she works it out.

 

The console hums under her fingertips, and she parks comfortably in the vortex.

 

Picking a corridor at random, she then goes in search of some clothes and a weapon. Trailing a hand along the wall in greeting, she can feel the ship’s welcoming hum in her mind, like a blanket settling around her thoughts to keep them safe. River hasn’t been alone with the TARDIS for a long time. Without the Doctor onboard they have a different dynamic, somehow; a pleasant calm without their usual mutual amusement at the Doctor’s more outlandish antics… or helplessness in the face of his sadness, lately. River doesn’t miss that, though the Doctor she has left with the Valkyries has his own, different burdens to bear.

 

She is reminded of his words. _You can’t die here as well._ There’s only one possible interpretation of that, isn’t there? Of course River has faced death plenty of times, but this feels… different. Real. Something final and concrete, suddenly looming over her.

 

She wonders how long she has left. It could be days. Then again, it could be centuries. That at least is as uncertain as it has always been.

 

She wonders if she will ever see her Doctor again. If only she hadn’t run away from him, perhaps… but no, she can’t waste time with thoughts like that. They’re pointless, even with a time machine, and pursuing them would be a colossal waste of time, at best; time she is now reminded is limited.

 

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that she should be reminded of this so soon after losing her parents. Perhaps this is something she really needs to be hit over the head with.

 

Perhaps, instead of mourning the fact that the Doctor she’s with is so young, she should be appreciating the fact that he is with her at all.

 

These sensible thoughts are completely derailed when she pushes open a door, expecting to step into the wardrobe, and instead finds herself in her parents’ bedroom.

 

“I hate you sometimes,” she mutters to her third parent. The ship hums indifferently; she knows she doesn’t mean it. Much.

 

Sighing, River steps farther into the room, knowing that she won’t be permitted to find the wardrobe until she has done whatever the TARDIS intends for her to do in here.

 

Her parents’ possessions are in a state of semi-tidiness; as though they’ve only just arrived and haven’t had time to make too much of a mess of the pristine room the TARDIS had no doubt presented them with. The ship has a habit of tidying up when no one’s looking that drives the Doctor batty; _How am I supposed to find anything when it’s not where I left it on the floor?_ is a question River has heard more times than she can count. The fact that she can always find whatever it is that he’s looking for just seems to irritate him further.

 

Rory always appreciated the complimentary cleaning service, of course, with Amy siding more with the Doctor’s point of view. But the TARDIS has always had a soft spot for Rory, so continues cleaning, regardless.

 

 _Continued_ , River has to remind herself. Past tense.

 

A New York guide book has been tossed on the bed – she can just imagine Amy ripping it out of Rory’s hands, making fun of him for reading something like that when they are travelling by TARDIS. River frowns as she picks it up and flicks through; 21st century New York doesn’t seem exotic enough for the Doctor. Why would he take them somewhere they could catch a plane and get to themselves? He wanted to impress them, always… especially when his time with them was more limited.

 

Limited to zero, now.

 

Amy’s make-up is still laid out on the dressing table, and River wanders over and puts the lid back on a tube of mascara. Pointlessly, of course – Amy is never going to use this again. This whole room will never be used again; it will be lost in the archives, probably never to be set eyes on again, unless the Doctor decides to come and mope in here. She wouldn’t put it past him, but even that will come to an end. He will move on. He always does, one way or another, and River has already met several of the companions who will follow her parents for him. Thank God. He won’t be alone.

 

River herself, on the other hand…

 

She is gripped by a sudden bout of loneliness, here in this empty room on this empty ship, with only the TARDIS’ quiet hum for company. Her parents gone, her husband knowing her less with every meeting like an Alzheimer’s patient who’s forgotten half his life…

 

She finds herself sitting on the bed, not quite sure how she got there, and fights against the tears stinging her eyes. Her grief has been suppressed for so long, patiently waiting for her to give it a chance to come to the surface, and now that she has that chance she finds that she doesn’t want to. Because shedding tears means acknowledging that she has something to cry about.

 

She could probably get back to New York with her vortex manipulator, but just talking to them, when she has stood by their grave, is too great a risk. Time will be too fragile there in the 1940s, and for many decades hence. By the time the damage they caused has repaired itself it will be too late.

 

Their younger selves are still there, of course, ready with welcoming arms for her to drop in at a moment’s notice, or even no notice at all. But still, to all intents and purposes, she has seen her parents die.

 

Just as the Doctor has seen her die, and she him. Life is an endless cycle of death. Even the TARDIS, warm and constant, will be gone some day.

 

Perhaps in the end it is better for River to die before then; before the last being in the universe who loves her is gone as well.

 

It makes sense, that it will be soon. Everything seems to be coming to an end, all the people she loves preceding her into their own endings… backwards, admittedly, in the Doctor’s case, but no less painful for it. And so River herself is left to limp behind them towards hers. She’s never felt this way about life, before – that she would readily accept it drawing to a close. That it might be possible that she’s outlived living. She has always, _always_ fought for survival, but she finds it difficult to muster that urge right now.

 

River has never expected to be someone who goes gentle into that good night. But what use is it to rage when there is no one by her side to do so with her?

 

She is lying on the bed now, clutching the duvet to her chest, and again she doesn’t remember moving. She is just _there_ , with tears on her cheeks and mascara stains on her hands when she wipes them away.

 

She lies there for a long, long time, until no more tears or sobs or cares can be squeezed from her shivering body. She feels no urge to move so she doesn’t, lying still for an eternity before the sensation of the TARDIS parking herself causes a sudden furrow on her brow.

 

What has the old girl gone and done now?

 

Never one to resist a mystery no matter what state she’s in, River stands, rubbing distractedly at the itching tear tracks on her cheeks. She’s still only wearing a towel and the Doctor’s coat, so she rummages quickly in the wardrobe and finds a skirt and top of Amy’s that just about fit. As for underwear, she will have to go without.

 

She’s sure no one will mind.

 

Slipping her feet into a pair of flip-flops, River steps out into the corridor and walks back to the control room, her footwear slapping noisily against the floor as she goes. The monitor shows several Valkyries sitting in a circle, surrounded by greenery, three thousand years earlier than where she has left the Doctor.

 

She knows instantly what she is expected to do.

 

“Oh _no_ ,” she protests to the TARDIS. “No. Come on. Hasn’t he got enough of a god complex already?”

 

River feels the ship brush her mind with something akin to a shrug.

 

“Seriously?” she replies aloud, shaking her head at the image on the screen.

 

When no reply is forthcoming she sighs, drums her fingertips on the console for a moment while she thinks, and then heads outside.

 

 

She takes her time getting back, not exactly eager to see what her meddling will have done to the Doctor’s ego. Besides, she has finally found the wardrobe, and once she is in there it always takes some time until she can tear herself away.

 

She carefully avoids the door to her parents’ room, and shuts everything that happened in there tightly away in the back of her mind.

 

When at last she deigns to take the TARDIS back to the Doctor, she finds him sitting cross-legged on top of the cage he was in, eating grapes. He is surrounded by Valkyries, but they look more awed than angry, now.

 

“River!” he declares cheerfully, waving his bunch of grapes in greeting. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she replies, striding forward and hoisting herself up onto the cage next to him.

 

“I hardly had to convince them at all – the moment they saw my psychic paper they all spontaneously decided to worship me. Although they do have a slightly odd way of showing it. Did you know that it’s a sign of respect here to moon someone?”

 

River tries not to guffaw, she really does, but bless him, he’s so adorable. If he was even a fraction of a century older he would have jumped down from here as soon as the TARDIS materialised and she would have stepped out to find him stalking towards her, wagging his finger in that faux-disapproving way that entertains her so much. For this one, it takes a few seconds of her helpless laughter before he cottons on.

 

“ _No_ ,” he says, drawing out the syllable as his eyes widen. “You didn’t! You told them—“

 

“Their ancestors.” River nods. “That it would be the greatest way they could possibly honour you, the god from the machine.”

 

“Oh, you’re _bad_. And up on your Greek dramatic devices, apparently, but bad!”

 

“Oh, sweetie, we both know you love it.”

 

He doesn’t reply, but the sudden grin and giggle tell her that maybe, just maybe, that’s true for him even this young.

 

“Your picnic is served, your Majesticness!” a raspy voice calls, and River turns to find a Valkyrie bowing and scraping lower than she would have thought possible, standing reverently by the side of the cage. Behind this spokesperson, a dozen others are carrying various jugs and platters to the top of the hill, where a large blanket has been spread out.

 

“Picnic?” River asks the Doctor, eyebrows raised.

 

“Yeah!” He shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes. “Picnic, Asgaard, seemed like the thing to do.” A second shrug, followed by a hesitant smile, lasts just a moment before he vaults down off the cage to land on the grass; turning, he holds out a hand to her, his grin firmly in place again. “Care to join me, Professor?”

 

Leaping down to land beside him, she takes the liberty of tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “Sounds delightful.”

 

 

And it is. Genuinely, unexpectedly, wonderfully delightful.

 

The Valkyries leave them alone after the food has been delivered – massive, sinful quantities of food – and retreat into the distance to hover busily around the still-lit fire, chattering excitedly. The Doctor pours wine, or something like it, just as the first rays of sunshine are flooding the distant mountains with light.

 

“I hope they’re not still planning to burn us,” River says contemplatively, raising her drink to her lips. “I did my best, but they were awfully keen on the ritual sacrifice bit.”

 

“That would be why I told them to keep well away from the TARDIS,” the Doctor says smugly, nodding. “At a run, I think we stand a good chance of making it.”

 

River grins. “You devious bastard.”

 

“Hey, being a god isn’t all perks, you know.”

 

“I do. Being Eris, for instance…” she trails off knowingly. “Well. Spoilers.”

 

The teasing has the effect she is anticipating – wonder, curiosity, a badly-concealed desire to know more and know it _now_. “I hate that word,” the Doctor says, though his tone of voice tells her he doesn’t mean it at all.

 

“Too bad.” River shrugs breezily. “You are the one who taught it to me in the first place.”

 

“I what?”

 

“Spoilers,” she repeats, turning away and sipping at her drink.

 

There is a couple sitting on the side of the mountain in the distance. A very familiar couple, it slowly becomes apparent to her, and River can’t hide the smile on her face when she sees their body language, the body language she has been yearning for from this Doctor; even a fraction of it would do. She’s not going to get it, she knows, but that’s okay now because whatever those two up there are doing – and she has a pretty good idea, she thinks, smirking – whatever it is they are doing, _she hasn’t done it yet._

 

Right up there is one shining moment she has yet to experience, and the hope blooming in her heart is unconcealable as it seeps out through her skin and tugs at her lips.

 

“What?” the Doctor says, and she realises he is staring.

 

River raises a hand to wave at the other them, and is rewarded by two hands raised in return. “Nothing, sweetie,” she sighs happily, turning back to face him.

 

“Wait – who is that?”

 

“No one you know. What’s _this_?” She picks out a fruit – fruit? Yes, fruit, she decides – that looks like a carrot.

 

“That’s you, up there.” His eyes widen as he stands, trying to get a better look. “Is that – is that _me?”_ He doesn’t sound at all sure that he likes that notion, and River can’t help but laugh.

 

“I couldn’t tell you,” she says honestly, raising the carrot-fruit to her lips in a manner she is sure will be more than enough to distract him from his future self.

 

She is right.

 

And, an hour or so later when they are running from sacrifice-bent Valkyries and the figures on the mountainside are long gone, the fire they are fleeing from doesn’t feel nearly so bright compared to the hope gripping her heart.

 

So she’ll die one day. So what? Everybody dies. But there is so much _life_ that comes beforehand.

 

 

River vaguely, _vaguely_ remembers, and she might be wrong – she is wrong about so many of those early memories, she knows – but there was this teacher, all stern glasses and curly hair. Substitute. She was just at the school for one day, she thinks, but she taught them all about Norse mythology. About Thor and his hammer, Odin and his ravens, and the valkyries who brought the dead to Valhalla.

 

Mels was in love with the idea of warriors being rewarded in the afterlife. At school all she ever heard was that fighting was bad; elsewhere, all she ever heard was that she was made to fight. The idea that perhaps both didn’t have to be true was a new one to her. Perhaps, if fighting wasn’t always bad, there was a tiny chance that she might not be so bad herself.

 

She and Amy pretended to be valkyries after school, dragging a reluctant dead warrior Rory across the playing field to hide in the big bushes at its edge, doubling as Valhalla for their most excellent feast of crisps and gummi bears.

 

They saw the substitute teacher walk past the other side of the fence, on her way back to wherever she came from, and they tried to pretend they weren’t really playing on school grounds after school hours, honest Miss, we just lost something here earlier and were looking for it. The woman didn’t seem to care – she was too busy smiling at the man who had just come up behind her out of nowhere.

 

And just before their mystery teacher was spirited off, Mels could have sworn she saw her wink.


End file.
